


Life is at Once Too Soft and Too Hard

by Kittenfightclub



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grandchildren, as always, not edited, post-brick, pretty much fluff, so beware!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenfightclub/pseuds/Kittenfightclub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean is scared to tell his grand-daughter about his past. Cosette convinces him he's being silly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is at Once Too Soft and Too Hard

_ “Puis, quand je crois ma joie être certaine, _

_ Et être en haut de mon désiré heur, _

_Il me remet en mon premier malheur._ ”.  
  
Valjean sighed and shut the book, it seemed that little Marie had fallen asleep. Pages ago she had shut her eyes, her head resting on her _grand-pere’s_ strong thigh. Valjean brushed a lock of hair from her face before starting to sit up, he stretched with a soft groan before noticing a soft and gentle pressure on his arm.  
  
“I’m not tired!”. The little girl yawned and hugged him tighter. Valjean laughed; Marie smiled.  
  


“Alright,” he said, “I will stay, would you like another story?”.   
  
“ _ Non _ ” whispered the girl, his granddaughter, the child of his beloved Cosette. He could tell sleep was once again claiming her and he smiled; it shone in his eyes.   
  
“Then what would you like dear?” he asked, returning to his seat on the bed, only half of his weight supported by the soft mattress. Valjean tucked the blankets around Marie with a soft smile as the girl thought; then, at last she spoke.   
  
“Tell me.” A yawn. “About the marks on your wrists, do they hurt?” she asked, prodding gently at the soft white scars.   
  
“On my wrists- oh,” upon realizing that little Marie’s question did not have an appropriate answer Valjean was at a loss for what to say. Fear gripped him like a tide, clinging to his hair and his clothing, pulling him far from rational thought.   
“They don’t hurt,” he reassured, “they are nothing. Go to sleep my dear.”   
The young girl was already asleep.

  
  
When Marie had asked about his wrists, Valjean had been filled with fear, the same fear he had felt, nearly eight years ago, when he had told Cosette of his past. He had been dying, and out of fear for her reputation- There was no use thinking of that now.   
He feared not being accepted, he knew he was accepted in the family, Cosette loved him. He was not sure the girl, Marie, an innocent flower of eight years, would feel the same way.   
  
She was a child, her fears were rational: of sickness, of death, of embarrassment. She was scared of birds in the night and storms and convicts taken through town, towed in carts through the streets like animals, on their way to the _bagne_.   
She was only a child.  
  
  
It was days later before Valjean caught Cosette creeping down the hallway, it was night, she had gotten up for a glass of water. Valjean had been standing at the curtain, looking out over the garden. She had been startle by his ‘appearance’ at the window.  
  
“The moon lit you up like a phantom _papa_! For a moment you seemed a ghost!” she lilted with a soft smile. Valjean could not smile back; a drop of sweat fell to the floor.   
It seemed to him, were Cosette to take a step nearer, he would simply sink to the floor. What had he done to deserve her? If his young _petite-fille_ chose not to forgive him, was that not what he deserved? He had no right to keep such a thing from the girl and yet, he had no right to tell her.  
  
Cosette turned from him with a smile, delicate glass cupped between the delicate palms of her lovely hands. How had Valjean not broken her at a touch he could not imagine.  
  
“ _Ma Cosette”_ he whispered, to her back. Valjean did not know if he had meant for her to hear the words, soft like a prayer, but she turned to look back.  
“Marie is a beautiful girl, she will be lovelier with age. You remember how you realized you possessed such beautiful? I am certain that she will possess the same! She’s-”  
  
“ _Papa_! What is this about? You do not plan to run off again!,” she set the glass down on the table and put an arm around her father’s shoulders. Normally she could not reach, but the hunch in his shoulders allowed it. She kissed his cheek.  
“ _S’il vous plaît_! You are always welcome here!”  
  
“She asked about my scars a few evenings past,” the old man sighed, Cosette gasped, “she fell asleep. I did not explain to her.”  
  
“You mustn’t keep secrets!” she chided, taking a step back to retrieve the glass from the table. Her nightgown swished behind her, as did her lovely brown locks. Each rustled in turn as a gust of wind blew in through the window.  
  
“I was scared.”  
  
Cosette turned, she was not used to her papa being fearful, as long as she had known him there had been few instances for fear. He was a fearless white knight in her eyes.  
“She is a smart girl, she will understand. You have no need to worry!”  
Valjean looked up from the garden and caught her eye, they shared a smile.  
“You will catch a cold!” she murmured, and closed the window; she took the glass and returned to her room. Valjean went to his own.  
  
  
  
The next evening, Valjean sat in the main room, a book balanced on his knee and the young girl draped over his lap. She listened intently as he told her a story of witches and princesses; Marie laughed and grinned and giggled. When the tale was over, the dragon defeated, he shut the book and placed it onto the table.  
  
“Marie,” he began and coughed, he lifted the girl gently from his lap and she grinned when he plopped her down beside him on the couch.  
Her hair fell perfectly about her shoulders and Valjean was once again in awe, she was so much like her mother. He was so proud. She had Cosette’s aura, her hair and her blushing cheeks; she had Fantine’s grin, like a doting mother bird.  
  
“The scars on my wrists…,” and he told her everything that it was appropriate for one of her age to know; once he had finished, the girl was silent. She did not smile, but she did not frown. Of the horrific things Valjean had seen in his life, this he ranked amongst the worst. He could not tell what she was thinking and that filled him with fear.  
  
“You’re not like them,” she whispered, so soft that Valjean hardly heard, but her voice rose with every word. “You don’t spit or curse or throw things. You’re not so dirty.” It was those words that made Valjean begin to cry; materially he had the scars and the lash marks and the tired eyes, Marie did not notice any of that. She had noticed the scars on his wrists before that night, he learned, but she had noticed his kind smile and his generosity and his kindness.  
  
Neither spoke for a long minute; it was late, Valjean took her to bed. He kissed every one of her toys goodnight, called them by name, turned off the lamp, kissed the girl, and left the room.  
Jean Valjean sighed and sank against the wall, Cosette brought him tea and soup and sat with him while he cried.   
She knew then that her daughter shared her father’s accepting nature, she was pleased and went to bed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> much thanks to Lune&BBQ for the wonderful inspiration and texting me whenever I wake up at unreasonable times of the morning ;) You don't keep me up, I keep myself up <3
> 
> Inspired by (and the title from) this Louise Labé poem, which I love so much:  
> "Je vis, je meurs: je me brûle et me noie,  
> J’ai chaud extrême en endurant froidure;  
> La vie m’est et trop molle et trop dure,  
> J’ai grands ennuis entremélés de joie.
> 
> Tout en un coup je ris et je larmoie,  
> Et en plaisir maint grief tourment j’endure,  
> Mon bien s’en va, et à jamais il dure,  
> Tout en un coup je sèche et je verdoie.
> 
> Ainsi Amour inconstamment me mène  
> Et, quand je pense avoir plus de douleur,  
> Sans y penser je me trouve hors de peine.
> 
> Puis, quand je crois ma joie être certaine,  
> Et être en haut de mon désiré heur,  
> Il me remet en mon premier malheur."


End file.
